


celestine

by halfaday (ayasegawoah)



Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Murder, Stuff, and a few references to abuse, and um well, not as tragic as it may sound just attempted murder, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayasegawoah/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: For the world to breathe again, the prince must die.





	celestine

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed (but proofread)! confusing! shorter than it was supposed to be! but for my defense the original concept for this was a drabble! mentions of murder also! and implied abuse! in case you didn’t read the tags! will you like it? only one way to know! keep reading! ahah!
> 
> inspired by the very first prompt on [this list](http://sparkingstoryinspiration.tumblr.com/post/153882542407/some-fractured-fairy-tale-ideas)

'So… You're here to kill me?'

'I thought the dagger to your neck spoke by itself.'

The prince chuckles, a single, lighthearted sound. The dagger grazes his neck as he does so, almost pricking him, and Sanghyuk tightens his hold around the handle. 

'You're right, my bad.' The prince swallows, drawing Sanghyuk's eyes to his adam's apple and the daintiness of his neck, a pale shade of silver under the moonlight. It's slender, and the skin of it looks incredibly soft, as if it had been preciously taken care of — the neck of a rich person, without a doubt, and Sanghyuk almost stabs it right here and then.

 _Calm. Calm._ He breathes in, breathes out, presses down a little more on the prince's shoulder.

'Are you waiting for something in particular?'

The prince doesn't seem very scared: as if this were a daily occurence, looking at him with the smallest grin on his lips, the tiniest glint of curiosity. Many peasants must have tried to kill him, Sanghyuk imagines; so many that this is a mere joke to him.

Oh, well. If he wants to gamble his life. Sanghyuk is serious, and will succeed.

'I'm enjoying the moment, is all.'

Sanghyuk smiles — tries to, but it comes out a little strained; the nerves eating away at a corner of his mind, threatening to overthrow his common sense at any moment if he doesn't keep them in check. Breathe in, breathe out.

'Don't enjoy it too much. Someone might walk in on us. You don't want to know what will make you forget your enjoyment.'

The prince's voice is soft, almost serious, but Sanghyuk knows better. He snorts, shifting a little to better accommodate his aching thigh, the hipbone of the prince digging into it. He's thin; skinny, and Sanghyuk wonders just what kind of food he eats at the palace to be looking like this. But then again, sickness doesn't look good on anyone, no matter how rich one is.

'No worries. You're dying tonight.'

He plays with his dagger, trails it a little lower, reaching a spot above the prince's clavicle. The prince doesn't shiver, doesn't gasp — only keeps on staring at him, as if this were all a game to him, a mere, common phenomenon.

'Not even gonna try to fight back? Call for help? Act scared?'

The prince chuckles — low, quiet, and Sanghyuk understands why so many girls around town want to marry him, can understand why the son of the butcher has a drawing of him under his pillow: his smile is pretty, bunching up what he has left of cheeks, his eyes fluttering closed as he allows joy to cross his face; a row of perfectly straight teeth flashing before his lips resort back to a thin, bored line, apart from a slightly amused corner, one that mirrors the amusement in his eyes.

'Are you asking me to choose? I don't wanna do either.'

Snarky, even on the brink of death. Sanghyuk wonders if the sickness has gotten this far for him to be this way, or if the wealth of his family has gotten to his head. He locks eyes with him, lets them wander on his face. It doesn't really matter.

'Fine by me. I wanted to make it fairer, you know, to not seem like I'm completely heartless. You're sick, after all.'

The prince doesn't even grace him with an answer — he breathes out a laugh instead, haughty, almost tired. He turns his head to the right, giving Sanghyuk full access to his artery.

‘You really have a death wish.' Sanghyuk says, and he has to admit he's surprised. Being bold is a thing, but being absolutely dumb is another. 'Are you expecting someone to walk into the room to save you? It's not happening, you know. None is paying attention to you, downstairs. They're all dancing and laughing and gossiping. It's a pitiful show.'

 _But then again, so are you,_ he thinks of saying, but it's not really true. The sight of the prince at his mercy has adrenaline coursing through his veins, excites him and has his mouth watering with joy. He’s impuissant, a living man to be soon dead, and Sanghyuk's heart rejoices at the thought.

'I don't care. Kill me.'

'Did I strike a chord?' Sanghyuk ignores the voice in his head telling him to just stab the prince already, and traces his collarbone with the tip of his dagger. The gesture earns him no reaction from the prince, and Sanghyuk lets go of his shoulder to tilt his head, forcing him to look at him. 'Did I?' he hisses.

His right hand itches, burns with the urge to stick his dagger in the smooth neck, to see it burst and drip blood; droplets, flows of red tainting the white of the sheets — but he relays the thought to a corner of his mind, instead tightening his hold on the prince's face, squeezing what's left of his hollow cheeks.

'No.'

Sanghyuk laughs. of course. As if the prince would care about the opinions of others. As if he would care about his family being blissfully ignorant downstairs, mere pawns to his game. As if he would care about his life, when people have taken on that duty from the moment he was born. A roach, that is what Sanghyuk sits above. A rotten, toxic roach that consumes everything on its way and leaves the streets polluted, filled with diseases and misery.

'You disgust me,' Sanghyuk says, and almost spits in the prince's face — but that can wait, when the prince is dead and he stands over his corpse, or, even better, while he's agonising, the fear finally striking his heart.

'Then kill me.' The prince tilts his head, trying to escape Sanghyuk's grip, but Sanghyuk's hand follows the movement. 'Go ahead. do it.'

Not only snarky, but feisty, too. No care in the world, so sure of himself, as if he were above humanity and its cares. Sanghyuk mentally snickers. Of course he would. Roach.

'Are you scared, suddenly? What are you waiting for?' The prince's voice is louder, sharp, as if almost impatient. 'Kill me,' the prince repeats, and Sanghyuk almost obeys, his nerves reappearing, getting carried away by the irritation in the prince's voice.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Sanghyuk focuses on his dagger; the protruding, but otherwise smooth, bone underneath. Following its path down to its head once again earns him no reaction, so he drags it a little lower.

A voice at the back of his mind wonders, asks him why he wants the prince to react. To feel successful? Or because deep down, he wishes for the prince to be human, someone who regrets and feels just like him, who may have reasons (although twisted) for making everyone suffer?

'What are you doing?'

There it is again. The flat tone, expressionless, bored at best. All traces of humanity disposed of at the earliest age. No regrets, or feelings. Only the delusion to be god, to have the right to do whatever he wants.

'Exploring. Considering stabbing you in the heart, but,' Sanghyuk looks up, smiles when he meets eyes with the prince, 'I don't think you have one.'

A shadow crosses the prince's face — quickly, fading as soon as it's appeared, but Sanghyuk catches it. The handle of his dagger slightly shakes in his hand, and he steadies it. 

'I don't. So stab me. Go on.'

His voice _does_ sound impatient — malice pools in Sanghyuk's stomach, embraces his insides warmly.

'My neck is right here. This is your one shot. Take it.'

But Sanghyuk doesn't listen — ignores the pretty, frail neck; instead gazes at the skin slowly unraveling as his dagger trails downwards. Smooth, paler than the skin above, yet somehow more vibrant. Sanghyuk wonders how it would feel underneath his fingers; brushes the tip of his dagger along the patch of skin right by his shoulder as a vicarious experience.

There is the smallest puff of air escaping the prince's lips, and Sanghyuk's head shoots up, his mouth unable to resist cracking into a smirk when he sees the anxiety painted on the other's face.

'Kill me,' the prince says, _orders,_ arching his neck, Sanghyuk's other hand, gone slack as he was staring at the skin of the prince's chest, cupping it as he does so.

Something — probably the bed — clinks at his left as he applies the slightest pressure on the prince's neck, memorising the sensation of warmth, the soft skin under his fingers, the bones of the prince's jaw, sharp against the tips of them. He savours it all, revels in having the prince at his mercy.

'Kill me. Kill me, kill me. Do it. Kill me.'

Sanghyuk ignores the prince's pleading — until the end, he will have been stupid, he thinks, begging him for death. His acting is wrong, completely backwards: he sounds imploring, antsy, all the opposite of the snark he was giving Sanghyuk just a moment ago. Surprising — once more, stupid, but Sanghyuk doesn't care. The prince's chest heaves as his dagger travels down his sternum, and Sanghyuk chuckles as the prince tries to arch his back.

'You have hands, my liege.'

The bed once again gives a metallic sound as the prince falls back against the mattress, and Sanghyuk almost fears that their weights are too heavy for it, but the prince doesn't seem puzzled in the slightest.

'Get off me,' he spits in reply, and Sanghyuk feels his legs move under him. Not much, just like his poor elbows desperately trying to stick his chest out — a pathetic attempt at defending himself, not working in the slightest. Sanghyuk briefly wonders if the sickness is that bad — can he not move anymore? Is that why he’s always confined to the palace?

Who cares.

'Down.' The bed rattles as Sanghyuk pushes the prince back into his sheets, his hand holding him down by the shoulder like before, callused skin against a soft one, partly covered by cotton. His collarbone almost hurts against Sanghyuk's palm — even more so when the prince starts moving again.

'Kill me,' he says, loud and clear, and for a moment Sanghyuk fears a guard walking in. For a moment — then he remembers none, apart from him and the prince, is upstairs. None cares.

'Down,' Sanghyuk repeats, in a whisper rendered deafening by the dagger pointed at the prince's chin. It seems the coldness of the blade works: the prince leans back into the comfort of his bed, quiet.

Somehow, the sight of his teary eyes, quivering lower lip doesn't satisfy Sanghyuk as much as he thought it would, and he looks away, back to the patch of skin his dagger has decided to explore, his blade turning away from the prince's chin to carry on its journey. 

'No,' the prince whispers as the blade grazes his skin, gently pushing back the collar of his night robe. His chest seems even more vibrant — was it not a silver moon today? Is it simply because of the layout of the room? How bright it is, how it almost glows.

'Don't do that,' the crack in the prince's voice almost has Sanghyuk looking up, but his common sense locks his nerves, his doubts away. Let him suffer, let him beg — he deserves it, deserves so much more that Sanghyuk cannot do unto him.

The prince whimpers as the blade gets lower, begging Sanghyuk to kill him over and over again in whispers, muttering nos and please don'ts. He tries to move, to put up a fight, but it doesn't take much strength to push him back down, the bed rattling as he does so. Sanghyuk tunes him out; ignores his pleas and pins him to the mattress, focuses on his dagger and its path. He's close, so close. Close to freedom, to setting everyone in the land free. 

He pictures it: the prince gasping as the blade penetrates his heart, a thin streak of blood trickling from the wound, his mouth slowly filling up with blood as the light leaves his eyes. Perhaps the last thing he will see will be Sanghyuk's face, triumphant; perhaps it will be the ceiling, black, empty, a reflection of his soul. The family will break down when they see their son lying dead on his bed — they'll implode, explode, and fade away as quick as lightning. Sanghyuk sees it, sees the land shining once more. It shines — shines in every colour, purple like the flowers, red like the dresses of the fisher's child; but as Sanghyuk's blade reaches the prince's heart, it turns blue. Like the sky, bright, almost blinding, illuminating every corner of the world, the room, filling up Sanghyuk's sight — or like the ocean; deep, fading little by little as it pulls Sanghyuk in. A quivering blue, just like the Ulysses butterflies Sanghyuk's best friend used to own, almost an illusion as their wings fluttered, black and blue and black and again blue; almost a dream as the prince's heart rate accelerates. It does not fade, does not blend into the dark: it becomes more and more vibrant as the prince's chest rises and falls in an agitated rhythm, paints Sanghyuk's sight blue as the prince lets out a sob, too helpless to even beg for death.

The future is supposed to be colourful, but Sanghyuk can only see shades of blue; vivid, piercing; alive and belonging to the present _._ Something he hadn't calculated.

'Please,' the prince mutters in the barest whisper.

He had pictured smooth skin, slightly more tanned than the prince's parents'; a sandy colour later stained by crimson red, turning a cadaveric shade of white as he'd leave the room. He'd pictured ochre, perhaps a pale shade of it — had pictured silver skin under the moonlight, just like the prince's face, his neck; but as his eyes flick up to observe, compare the two body parts, the blue burns his eyes, digs deep into them and settles there.

'How,' he starts, and doesn't finish. He knows how, has heard tales about it, and when, why, and whom. He can _guess_ how the prince has landed here, and doesn't actually want to know, he realises as facts and assumptions start to make sense. Cruelty has no bounds, and Sanghyuk doesn't desire to know what the palace's limits are. Freedom, in this case, is remaining ignorant.

The blue beats wildly still, shaken and powerless, and Sanghyuk loosens his grip on the prince's shoulder, lets his blade, the fist that holds it, rest on his chest. The glow almost reaches his middle finger, and Sanghyuk watches it flutter once, twice, before turning away, looking up to a face wet with tears. 

Guilt strikes him, pools into his throat and sends bits of itself running through his veins, and he sighs. Breathes in, breathes out.

'You're not sick,' he says, more of a declaration than a question. He _knows,_ has all the answers in front of him, written in shades of blue, but he needs to hear it. 'Your brother is.'

The prince somehow manages to laugh in-between sobs, in-between tears and internalised wails.

'He's not my brother.'

His voice cracks on the _not,_ fragile and barely audible.

 _I assumed as much,_ Sanghyuk would say if this were a normal situation; but this isn't one, so he remains silent. He nods instead, although the prince cannot seem him, eyes shut tightly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

It's a pitiful show — pain grazes Sanghyuk's heart as yet another sob escapes the prince's lips, and Sanghyuk looks away. He should stand up; should leave, maybe. Leave and never come back, or leave to set up another murder, this time one against the right person. This isn't safe: the guards could walk in at any time, make him their prisoner, lock him up in a tiny cell for the rest of his life. 

Sanghyuk's gaze falls on the bed as he tergiversates, wandering on the prince's blue heart then his night robe, following the outlines of his chest, his shoulder, his arm. His right hand hangs from the bed, a gigantic metallic bracelet threatening to fall from it, and Sanghyuk suddenly remembers the noises as the prince tried to struggle, as he only arched his back to defend himself.

 _You have hands, my liege._ But are they free?

The reply is noisy; the chain attached to the bed clinking as Sanghyuk tilts the prince's hand, inspecting what he had mistaken for a bracelet. Heavy, probably customised to fit the palace's needs — it's all Sanghyuk can see before the hand moves away, as far from him as its shackle allows.

Sanghyuk looks up. The prince is staring at him, brows furrowed, but the tears in his eyes dilute the heinous expression he's pulling. He looks — frightened, like an animal who's spent its entire life in a cage, unable to trust anyone.

'What have they done to you,' Sanghyuk whispers, more to himself than for the prince; yet their eyes meet, and Sanghyuk finds himself unable to look away. Behind the tears and hatred, there is fragility, fear. Emotions, ones that make the prince's heart beat faster, glowing underneath Sanghyuk's blade. Ones that Sanghyuk can't, does not want to picture as part of his daily routine. How many times has the prince been scared like this? How many times has he thought he was letting out his last breath, to in the end be told he was given another day? How many times has he regretted that, has wished he would have died, because at this point, death is a fairer option than life?

He was taunting Sanghyuk earlier, imploring him to kill him. Has it been this long, for him to jump on the first opportunity to die? Is the reason life is bleak to him, not because he never had to care about it, but because its worth was stripped away from him when he was only a child? People would kill for his heart, his blood, his insides — people have captured him for them. At this point, isn't the best fate one that takes away his suffering?

'Let me,' Sanghyuk says, laying his free hand on the bracelet of the shackle. He gets pushed away; the prince extending his arm as far as he can in a poor attempt to stay out of his reach.

'No. Kill me.'

The prince gesticulates, shifts his chest as best as he can. Sanghyuk lets him - watches as the blade of his dagger slides a little over his pectoral, glowing a pale blue. Clinks can be heard at Sanghyuk's right, noisy and impatient as the prince desperately tries to lift his left hand. He can't — is unable to even reach Sanghyuk's leg, and he whimpers, arching his back once more.

'Kill me,' he repeats, eyes fixated on Sanghyuk's dagger, the craving for death drying his tears. 'Kill me.'

Sanghyuk remains quiet.

'Do it,' the prince carries on, 'kill me. Kill me.'

It's a worthless taunt — already will has left Sanghyuk's blade, Sanghyuk's heart. The prince's suffering does not excite him anymore now that it lays bare in front of him, along with all of the pieces of the puzzle that were missing — it only pains him, brushes against his heart with a glove made of thorns, and Sanghyuk cannot, does not want to, bring himself to kill the prince. 

What good would it do? The prophecy has been told but — this isn't right. Nothing in this room is. None had foreseen the shades of blue — they do not belong to the future, shouldn't be those of the present. But Sanghyuk cannot unsee them, cannot see past them. How has anyone missed them, he wonders, when they stand out like this, when they blind him and render him unable to see anything else.

'You've gotten this far. Kill me.' The chains clatter as the prince tries to paw at Sanghyuk, barely managing to brush his fingers against his legs. He's frantic, panicked, desperately wishing for his last breath — a tear strolls down his face as Sanghyuk stares, leads the way to another and another and another as Sanghyuk remains immobile. 'You can't- you can't leave me here. Please kill me. Please- kill me.'

Sanghyuk thinks. He can; could leave the prince. He could stand up and walk away, from the room, the palace, everything that he's seen. He could leave, and tell someone about who the prince truly is, what is truly happening in the palace. Perhaps the chosen one, not yet named but surely out there, who would pick up the tale in the whisper of the wind; or tired workers, who would only need a push to rebel. They would be stronger than him; more organised, too. The royal family wouldn't be able to fight them back — they would set the people free with perfect manners.

But wouldn't it be dangerous? Wouldn't the prince be at risk, then? He's been caged into a room — has been living so that he can keep his brother alive, has no worth outside of what the universe has gifted him. Only this gift is worthy — and Sanghyuk shudders at the thought of the workers seeing it with their own eyes, becoming greedy with power.

'Kill me.'

Sanghyuk closes his eyes. And what about himself? He worries about the workers, and their hypothetical greed, forgetting about the mess he is now in. _He_ is in danger, a dagger held to the heart of the most cherished prize of the family. He should leave — right now, as fast as he can, before guards catch him, before they lock him away.

Sanghyuk's leg must have moved — the prince's fingers clutch at the pocket of his pants, begging Sanghyuk not to leave the room untouched. Begging him to kill, to follow his plan.

Killing the prince would be quick: a simple stab to the heart, his hand on his mouth to muffle his whimpers. Sanghyuk would trade the knife with the candle on the bedside table once the deed is done, its melted tip into the body a message to the family; he would leave unnoticed and live unpunished. The kingdom would perish, the world would rise from its ashes. His blade would sink into the blues, briefly rendering them vibrant as the prince's heart would frantically try to survive, permanently erasing them from existence, and the knowledge of the masses. The prince's chest would quiver, shake, then become abruptly still. 

Sanghyuk can see it: has the scene unfolding in front of his very eyes. But they're distracted by the blade of his dagger, the heart beating furiously underneath. It beats in rhythm, has his blade rising just a little with each of its frantic beats — it's alive, no matter what the prince wants, no matter what the prince fears; no matter what he's gone through. It's there, glowing, holding on.

 _The summit of your soaring is when you don't give up,_ Sanghyuk recalls being told when he was just eight. A really stupid idea, he'd thought back then, because he couldn't commit to anything, just like he cannot commit to murder now. But he now understands — sees the soaring with his very eyes, feels it underneath his fingers. It's barely starting to reach its summit — could be so much higher if it wanted, could touch the sun if it tried. It beats, frantically, five beats as Sanghyuk inhales, six as he exhales, does not stop no matter how crushed it is. It beats, and reminds Sanghyuk of his own rhythm. A calmer one, smaller, quieter, but yet still here as he laments his incapacity to execute his plan. Wings that never left no matter what he failed at, that never really let him use his feet and touch the ground even when he was at his lowest. 

Giving up is only an option when his body decides it's had enough, he realises in shades of blue — being incapable to kill his prey does not mean he is failing. If the red of murder refuses to fit him, then he will try a different shade. After all, the world is colourful out there — he has the right to pause to look at the green of the trees, is allowed to turn back to gaze at the yellow flowers he hadn't noticed at first. He has the right to deny every shade of red, no matter how right they are. He has the right to close his eyes, to let the wind carry him to what the zephyr whispers is the path for him. He has the right to follow his instincts, no matter how stupid and unplanned their idea is, even if it has rocks falling from the above and onto him. He's failed many times, is used to the outside world grazing his wings — is used to trying and failing, but also trying and succeeding. And success has never been his tightest friend, has let him down a few many times. It doesn't run in his blood — but perhaps it flows freely in the prince's veins. And it might not — perhaps the prince will refuse, perhaps he will argue and fight back, too; but Sanghyuk cannot let the sky fall and crumble down, not when it suddenly has him soaring in a meaningful direction.

'Let me.' 

Sanghyuk locks eyes with the prince, stares as he waits for the hand in his to relax, to stop digging its nails into his skin.

'Why?'

Sanghyuk smiles, against his will, a minuscule, nervous smile as he thinks of what's to come. Fear, fright, terror, possibly despair.

But all of them with shades of blue, and Sanghyuk believes the thought of making it is worth it.

'So we can run away.'

**Author's Note:**

> nooo sanghyuk dont kill the prince hes so blue aha


End file.
